


The Things We Cannot Lose

by StarlingJedi



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s04e18 Skip, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 02:18:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3792922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlingJedi/pseuds/StarlingJedi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They know they're fighting a losing battle, but there are some things that they can't be willing to sacrifice. Three-part coda to episode 4x18 "Skip" (POV Finch, Root, and Reese).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Finch

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Bookwyrm52 at FF.net for leaving ideas in my "Challenges, Drabbles, and Prompts" collection... what originally would have been a one-shot coda evolved into a three-part story because of the plot bunnies left for me.

" _It was a brilliant plan, Harold... the Trojan horse. But it would've gotten Professor Whistler killed."_

* * *

He watches her leave; then, when she disappears from sight, he listens as her echoing steps fade away until the only sounds left in the Subway are cold silence and his own shaky breathing.

He stands like this for several long seconds, then lets out a weary sigh and all but collapses in his chair. His chest feels tight, his heartbeat a rapid flutter. He places a hand on his chest and focuses on his breathing, trying to calm himself down. It's a disconcerting feeling, being this worried about his heart rate. For the first time in his life, he feels _old_.

Then again, he reminds himself, he has nobody to blame for _that_ but himself.

He slowly spins the chair toward his computer screens, staring numbly at them without truly seeing them. His fingers twitch as if to reach for the keyboard, but he doesn't want to have anything to do with the computer right now. Much like he doesn't want to have anything to do with Ms. Groves for the time being either.

He wants nothing to do with either, yet both are taking up the majority of his thoughts.

What he _wants_ is to scream. He wants to scream, break down and cry, throw something, _break_ something. He wants to hurl the keyboard across the Subway. He wants to smash his fist through the monitors. He wants to break free of the calm façade that he's maintained for years, to let out every bit of hurt and frustration and anger and despair that he's feeling, to be someone other than the quietly sophisticated persona that he's hidden himself within for so long that he no longer knows how to be anything else.

He doesn't do any of it. For one thing, he doesn't want to risk aggravating his newly-diagnosed heart condition; one trip to the emergency room is more than enough for him for a while. But most of all, he's simply too _tired_.

He settles for carelessly shoving his keyboard aside to make room for him to cross his arms on the desk. He rests his head on his crossed arms, not even bothering to take off his glasses first. He's beyond caring at this point. He's fighting a losing battle against an AI he can't defeat, taking friendly fire for what little progress he can make; he's watched two good friends get gunned down in the space of a year, and just had a falling out with another. Even Mr. Reese seems more distant than he once was. In comparison, bending his glasses or hurting his neck by sleeping at his desk no longer rank anywhere on his "Things That Harold Finch Cares About" list.

He wants to hate Ms. Groves for what she's done. But for some reason that he doesn't quite understand, he can't.

If he felt like making the effort to analyze the core of his feelings, it would probably be _defeat_ that he's feeling.

He lets out a weary sigh, and closes his eyes. No, at the heart of it all, he's simply tired. It's an emotional tired, though right now it's translating into physical weariness.

He wants to stop fighting.

He knows he can't.


	2. Root

" _It's okay if we're not friends anymore. You being alive is enough."_

* * *

She manages to make it outside of their hidden sanctuary before the tears spill over.

She pauses next to the fake vending machine that serves as the "door" to the Subway, and makes a halfhearted attempt to wipe the tears from her eyes. She hadn't exactly been lying when she told Harold that it was enough for her that he was alive. She'd already lost Sameen; she couldn't bear the thought of losing him too.

The "no longer friends" part... well, she isn't okay with that, not by a long shot.

Harold's displeasure and hurt hadn't entirely been unexpected, but it still hurt to be on the receiving end of it. She respects him, and has come to cherish the friendship that has inexplicably formed between them, despite the kidnappings and torture that began their relationship. Letting him down had been necessary, but it sure hurts more than she realized it would.

Being sent away hadn't been unexpected either. But she consoles herself with the memory that his words were, "I don't want to see you for a while" rather than "I never want to see you again." She clings to the hope that, one day, she can repair the friendship with him.

She takes a deep breath and starts walking for the exit. She's been by herself before; she can do it again. It's not optimal, but there's little other choice. She can't give up now.

She wonders if The Machine is mad at her, too. After all, She didn't want her to intervene in Harold's plotting, and for the first time since she became Her analog interface, she ignored Her entirely. If she no longer has Her voice guiding her...

She shoves the thought out of her mind. No, the cause is too important for Her to abandon her now.

There is somebody else coming down the service tunnel toward her; it's John. She takes a deep breath and focuses her attention straight ahead, avoiding eye contact.

They come up beside each other, and John reaches out, grabbing her by the arm and forcing her to stop. She stands silently, still staring straight ahead, refusing to meet his steady gaze.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

A single tear threatens to betray her; she quickly blinks it away. "Just on my way out," she says in a flat voice.

He doesn't let go of her. "Something's wrong."

He's too observant, too good at sensing emotions. She takes another breath to make sure she doesn't lose it – because she'll be damned if she breaks down in front of Harold's helper monkey – and calmly answers. "I have to move on. I won't be back for a while." She turns to meet his scrutiny head-on. There's a stern look in his eyes, but something more. It takes her a moment to register it as _concern_.

Dropping her gaze, she softly adds, "You might want to keep a close eye on Harold for a while. Professor Whistler was admitted to the E.R. yesterday for a stress-induced heart attack."

"He was _what_?" John's voice is calm, steady... but his hand is slowly tightening on her arm.

"It was a mild one; no blockages found, no lasting damage to the heart muscle. They discharged him and let him go home last night. He has some prescriptions for the arrhythmia, and a follow-up appointment with a cardiologist. You might want to make sure he keeps that appointment; he has a cover to maintain, after all." She can feel John's fiery stare. "He'll be okay. The symptoms should fade in a few weeks. But please keep an eye on him so he doesn't push himself into a worse fate before then. I know he won't tell you what happened."

"Then why don't you enlighten me, Root?"

She takes a deep breath and forces herself to look in his eyes. She's shocked to see that it appears he's more scared than angry. "Did you know about the Trojan horse?"

"What Trojan horse?"

She's not surprised that he didn't know. "He was about to put himself on Samaritan's radar in a major way. I was just trying to stop him. We... had a disagreement about my methods, and he decided it would be better to sacrifice himself than to let me take care of the problem my way."

She's not sure how to interpret the look on John's face now. "So the heart attack...?"

"... was real enough for the paramedics and the E.R. doctors," she fills in. "They didn't need to know it was pharmacologically induced." After a moment, she adds, "I tried to call you yesterday, but you didn't answer your phone. I don't think Harold wanted you to know anyway, but I thought you deserved to know why I was leaving."

He's silent for a moment. "I'm sorry I didn't answer the phone," he says. "I was... distracted." He says this with a tone of sadness. "Where are you going now?"

"I don't know yet. I'm sure She will tell me something."

John finally releases her arm. "When will you be back?"

She shrugs, managing a smile despite the pain. "I don't know that yet, either. I suppose whenever Harold is ready to talk to me again, or when She tells me to come back."

They regard each other for a moment. Finally John nods and steps away. "You be careful out there, Root," he says.

"You too, John," she replies, walking away without looking back.

After all, he doesn't need to see the tears in her eyes.


	3. Reese

" _Sooner or later, both of us will probably wind up dead;_ _actually_ _dead, this time."_

* * *

He watches Root leave until she disappears from sight. He's not quite sure what to make of his conversation with her. For one thing, he keeps going back to the revelation that Finch was apparently willing to poison himself to keep Root from... what, exactly? Killing someone?

His phone is in his pocket, still off. The weight of it mocks him. He turned it off last night, indulging himself the privacy of a night with just him and Iris. It had been something magical to be able to lose himself in another woman, no distractions, nothing but two people and a soft bed.

He regrets that, now. Finch had been in the hospital, Root had tried to call him, and he'd been too busy with a one night stand to answer his phone.

He stops himself before he lets his mind consider what he'd be feeling right now if they had lost Finch...

He punches the combination into the vending machine, and steps inside when it opens up for him. He knows he shouldn't feel guilty for having a moment for himself – heaven only knows he doesn't have them often – but he can't stop dwelling on the fact that Finch had needed him (even if he never would have admitted it), and he'd been too busy trying to have a facsimile of a relationship with someone that, if he thinks about it, probably won't work out in the long run anyway. Not with the Numbers that never stop coming. Not with his secret identity protecting him from an evil supercomputer.

A small part of him resents that he can't have a normal life. Does he really want to be The Man in the Suit for the rest of his life, when he could put it all behind him, settle down with a wife and children...?

It's a train of thought that he indulges for precisely the length of time it takes for him to step into the cavernous room of the Subway and see Finch slumped over on his computer desk.

For a moment, he freezes, stunned by what he's seeing. Then his body kicks into gear a half-second before his brain does, and he's running, his heart beating in his throat as he skids to a stop beside the desk and grabs his friend by the shoulder in desperation. " _Harold!_ "

Finch's eyes fly open behind glasses set askew as he gasps and jumps up from his chair, pulling himself free of Reese's grasp. "Good heavens, John – what is _wrong_ with you?" he exclaims, grabbing the edge of the desk with one hand to steady himself.

Reese takes a step back, feeling a rush of relief that his initial fear that Finch had suffered a heart attack – a _real_ one this time – hadn't been the case after all. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I just... I saw you, and I thought..." His voice trails off as he notices Finch raise a trembling hand to his chest; he's struck with a sudden worry that having startled Finch awake could have possibly triggered something. "Are you all right, Harold?"

"You mean besides being very rudely awakened and having the living daylights scared out of me?" Finch shoots back.

This time, the sense of guilt is very much palpable. "I'm sorry," he repeats. "I didn't mean to startle you... I just saw you lying there, and I thought..."

"Thought _what_ , Mr. Reese?"

He sighs and perches on the edge of the desk. He can't answer, not directly; he can't admit – out loud _or_ to himself – that he'd thought Finch was dead. He can't bear the thought that he could very well discover him that way one day... that someday he would be too late for something that matters to him now more than anything else.

"I spoke with Root on my way in," he finally tells Finch.

"Oh... I see." Finch slowly lowers himself back into his chair. "And what exactly did Ms. Groves tell you?"

"She mentioned something about a Trojan horse. And she also mentioned that you were about to get caught by Samaritan. You want to fill me in on that?"

Finch's jaw tightens. "Not particularly," he says tersely. "And for the record, the part about being caught by Samaritan was a distant future possibility, _not_ an imminent threat."

"She also said you two disagreed with how she should handle it, and that it resulted in what the doctors called a 'stress-induced heart attack', but what sounded more to me like poisoning. Am I getting the story right here?"

Finch looks somewhat discomfited by this. "More or less," he admits.

"And your reasoning for this is...?"

"An innocent woman was going to die if I did nothing. I couldn't let that happen. My life is not worth more than anybody else's; if it comes down to me or someone else..." He shakes his head. "I would rather die than let an innocent person be murdered, especially if I'm the one who put that person at risk to begin with."

"I take it I'm still not getting the full story."

Finch closes his eyes, a pained expression on his face. "I... I can't do this now, John," he says, standing up and making his way toward the cot beside the subway car. His limp is more noticeable today. "I'm tired, and I'm upset. Ms. Groves took it on herself to interfere with something that she had no business to interfere with in the first place. She completely undid months of work, of trying to fix all of _this_ —" He waves an arm in a broad gesture at their surroundings "—so that we can finally stop hiding in this giant tomb and get back to our work the way it was... and on top of that, she tried to _murder_ someone, with her reasoning being that doing so would be protecting _me_!"

He sighs, letting his arm drop back to his side as he sinks down on the cot. He suddenly looks exhausted, and almost at the brink of tears. It's not a side of Harold Finch that Reese is used to seeing.

Reese slowly crosses the room and sits down on the cot next to Finch. He hesitates just a moment before wrapping an arm around Finch's shoulders. The older man lets out a quiet sigh and leans against him.

"I'm sorry," Finch says morosely.

"It's okay, Harold. I'm sorry I wasn't there to help."

"I doubt there was anything that you could have done differently, but I appreciate the sentiment."

"I'd like to think I could have done something other than let you try to kill yourself." He tries to keep the bitterness out of his words, but fails.

There is a long pause before Finch speaks again. "I understand you're not happy with my actions, but it was the only choice I had. She wouldn't have stopped otherwise."

Reese doesn't reply to this. Finch's words have left a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach; the sheer _wrongness_ of this brilliant man using his life as a bargaining chip weighs heavily on him.

There's a soft snore, and Reese suddenly realizes that there's something _physically_ weighing on him as well; Finch has fallen asleep leaning against Reese, his head resting on the taller man's shoulder.

He shifts to where he can support Finch's neck, carefully easing himself to a standing position while gently guiding the older man to where he's now lying on the cot. As he removes Finch's glasses, he notices for the first time the worry lines creasing the corners of his eyes, the tightly troubled expression on his face even in his sleep. Finch has always been the calm and rational one, remaining the ever-steady rock even as everything has crumbled around them... but this war is clearly taking its toll on him.

The realization feels like a punch to the gut. How could he not have noticed before?

He has to make it up to Finch, somehow. Take some of the worry and burden off of him.

It will help if Finch is no longer in a position where his best defense method is attempted suicide.

His mind flashes back to a time when Finch was willing to pick up a gun for the sake of helping him rescue Taylor Carter. He hadn't let him at the time; he knew Finch's dislike of violence and firearms.

It's different now. This time, it was poor judgment and a distraction; next time, it could be a fate far worse awaiting him. He knows they're fighting a losing battle. He won't be there to protect his friend forever.

He can't let Finch be defenseless again.

Even in a war that can't be won, some things are too important to lose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Bookwyrm52 over on FF.net, whose plot bunnies left in my "Challenges, Drabbles, and Prompts" collection (namely, " _Did Reese ever find out about the stunt Harold pulled in "Skip"?_ " and " _Why exactly did Reese decide now is the time to teach Finch to shoot in "Search and Destroy"?_ ") inspired a longer fic than just the initial chapter with Finch.
> 
> Many virtual hugs to everyone who commented, bookmarked, and left kudos! :)


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